The house was dark except for the flickering light of the muted TV. Bottles littered the coffee table. Oliver sat on the couch, shirt rumpled, eyes bloodshot, an untouched glass of scotch in his hand.
He hadn't slept in two days. Maybe three. His phone buzzed with updates, useless ones. Still no Kayla. Nothing from the police, nothing from Western's security. Nothing. Just silence.
"Kayla…" he whispered into the quiet, throat raw from yelling her name into the void so many times.
The door creaked open. Asher stepped in, eyes scanning the wreck Oliver had become. She didn't speak at first. She walked past the mess, picked up a half-filled bottle, and poured it out in the sink.
"You know this is exactly how she won," Asha said coldly.
Oliver didn't move. "I don't care."
"You do." She turned to him, hands on her hips. "You care enough to drink yourself stupid every night instead of fighting."
He finally looked at her, eyes hollow. "I can't fight what I can't find."
